


I've Known You Before You Even Met Yourself

by noctiscorvus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, There are emotions Peter doesn't deal with because Hale's don't do emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctiscorvus/pseuds/noctiscorvus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It felt like fire, coursing through his veins like a death march, the beating of his heart the drums that spurred the poison on. The staccato was more clear, more vivid then he could ever remember, louder than it had been when his body had been surrounded by flames.<br/>Of course, back then, he’d been listening more to the sounds of his Pack dying around him.<br/>Now though, now it was just him. Choking on the pain as he lay in a putrid alleyway, wolfsbane wreaking havoc in his veins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Known You Before You Even Met Yourself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> It started out alright, but got worse as I progressed, so if it doesn't flow right or something it's because I suck and haven't written Peter before, which was going swell, till Stiles came in.
> 
> This was gonna be a prompt but, as Nezstorm is kindly filling those I keep throwing out, I decided I'd return it with a favour of kind.
> 
> Unbeta'd so the mistakes are mine.
> 
> UPDATED: I've gone and revamped the layout, not awake enough to tackle the actual content though. So while some bits might not flow as well, atleast it should read easier now.

It felt like fire, coursing through his veins like a death march, the beating of his heart the drums that spurred the poison on. The staccato was more clear, more vivid then he could ever remember, louder than it had been when his body had been surrounded by flames.  
Of course, back then, he’d been listening more to the sounds of his Pack dying around him.  
Now though, now it was just him. Choking on the pain as he lay in a putrid alleyway, wolfsbane wreaking havoc in his veins.

Peter wasn’t one to lay down in the dirt, regardless of his health, but with the toxin taking affect, he hadn’t wanted to give the hunters the pleasure of watching him struggle just to sit up, not while he could stay prone and throw out cackling taunts till they kicked him in the ribs to get him to shut up. Then twice more for good measure.  
Which really, kicking a man while he’s down?  
Poor upbringing, if anyone asked his opinion.  
Which they didn’t. Not that he’d let that keep him from sharing his thoughts.

Still, now that they’d finally gone, left the burning, bitter wolf to suffer alone while they hunted down the rest of the Pack, Peter found he didn’t have the strength to even muse sitting up.  
So he laid there, sucking in shaky breaths as he tried to make out the stars overhead, fighting back the urge to howl. To alert his Pack as to where he was, to where he lay dying.

There was no pride, the man had found that death and it’s approach rarely held any use for it. After all, what good would it do the dead man if he held his head high in those final moments?  
Peter had died before, spent enough time hanging in between not-really-dead and not-exactly-alive during the coma too. He was well acquainted with what came after, even if he couldn’t quite recall it he still remembered the feeling, the chill that had set deep in his bones and hadn’t yet shook off before it was slowly creeping back.

No, Peter huffed out a groan, claws digging sporadically into the concrete below him as the burn chewed away at him.  
He’d done enough to those kids, to his own family. He could go quietly, he could fade into the shadows forever, let them find him when dawn broke, out of their hair and gone for good.  
He wasn’t that self-centered that he held no guilt about his actions, regardless of the state of mind he’d been in. He’d killed his own niece, for God’s sake!

And while things worked a little differently in the supernatural world, rising through the ranks by the blood of your kin an accepted method, he hadn’t wanted to kill Laura, the little girl he’d watched over since birth, all bright eyes and brighter smiles.  
Smiles he’d also taken from Derek and Cora.

Peter knew his place in the Pack, a necessity because Derek’s pups lacked experience and knowledge, because he was still the Alpha’s uncle and Derek, for all the leather and snarls, was a lost kid. He was never raised to lead, not a Pack anyway.  
So why burden his nephew anymore? Why cry out for help, have Derek torn between doing his duty as Alpha and letting Peter get what was long coming to him.  
  
Peter could feel his body shutting down, could feel the coldness sweeping from bones to limbs and organs. Being burnt in the fire hadn’t felt like this, those flames leaving his skin feeling scorched for days, weeks on end.  
A mangled sigh passed his lips, vision that had long been fading now dropping him into darkness. He deserved this, death, a painful one at that. One that might give his remaining family some peace of mind.

Then suddenly the heat came, an unbearable fire pressing against his chest as flames started flickering behind his eyelids and Peter didn’t even try to hold back the strangled whimpers.  
It hurt, it hurt so bad, seemed to be spreading, dancing over his skin as his body was pulled apart at the seams, then the sound of a beast, no, the beam falling, engulfed in flames that had cracked the wood with heat, the house falling apart around him as everyone screamed, cried and begged for it to stop.   
  
And Peter couldn’t, didn’t know how or what to do, couldn’t pick which voice was closer, which ones he could save. Wasn’t sure he could save himself because all he could see, feel, hear was heat and death and he was on fire, the screaming voices his own echoing back, just him in the house ablaze with embers that called his name tauntingly, licked at his arms and brushed along his burning cheeks in with fervor.

He howled, howled as part of the roof came down on him again, as his heartbeat pounded louder than his cry in its effort to stay alive, in its want to live.  
Peter didn’t want to, couldn’t go there again, couldn’t rot away in the cold embrace of a grave where the inferno would burn away at him till beyond the afterlife, he couldn-Peter cou-Pe.  
  
“PETER!”

 Unnaturally blue eyes flew open, the werewolf shooting upright as he clenched at his chest, hunched over and heaving in lungful after lungful of air, cold, crisp Autumn air with a hint of antiseptic.  
Not dry, hot, sticky air, tainted with smoke and burnt wood. Not the smell of his own skin burning away, of death coming closer.  
Wild eyes darted around, his body slowly taking note of what his senses picked up, the familiarity of the place, the stink of sick animals, the taste of herbs. The veterinary.  
Peter huffed out a painful breath, his frame shaking with the exhale as his eyes finally landed on the boy.

Stiles wasn’t cowering, not at all, there just wasn’t enough room for him to brandish the stool unless he was firmly pressing his back into the wall.

They stared at eachother then, the human watching the panic leave the wolf’s eyes while he lowered his weapon, the clinking of metal on the granite floor making the older man blink, look away while he shook off the rest of the terror he’d been caught in.  
  
It didn’t take Peter long to snap his attention back to Stiles, eyes briefly darting down to the stool before raising an eyebrow.  
“I.. grabbed the closest thing on instinct.” The muttered reply came, Stiles’ voice a little cautious, but not out of fear.

“I’m sure.” Peter’s voice cracked a little, his throat protesting and he turned away again before things got all emotional and awkward, as teenagers were wont to do, and Stiles, God forbid, asked him _how he felt_. With the state he was in, throat raw, face wet, still obviously more on edge than he _ever_  allowed to show, he could only imagine the performance he must have put on for the human.

The werewolf took time to assess the damage, feeling the last of the wolfsbane leave his system with a grateful sigh. His shirt had been half cut away, showing that the puncture wounds all over his chest were now all closed or halfway there. Same went for his shoulder and arm.  
His ribs were a little tender, flesh wounds easier to heal than broken bones, but all in all, he’d pull through fine, if not a little sore for the next day.

Peter swung his legs over the edge of the tabletop, letting his hands rest on his lap as he sighed again, this time a little upset.  
“I really liked this shirt.” He looked to Stiles, catching brown eyes flickering up to meet his with a flash of guilt, possibly for ruining the shirt, and embarrassment at having been caught. Not that it would have been the first time.  
“I’ll let it slide this time, you did save me after all.” And while Peter sounded begrudging, he was more than thankful, something Hale’s had a hard time showing it seemed.

The werewolf let his feet dangle for a second before he moved to stand, only to be crowded back into the table by a determined looking teenager.  
Peter waited a beat before opening his mouth with a warning growl, he wasn’t in the mood for this right now, “Stile-“  
“You’re wrong.” And as much as Stiles believed that, Peter had no clue what he was on about.  
“What.” He snapped, just wanting to go home, possibly drink away the slight tremor left in his hands.  
  
“You don’t deserve that, to die alone, in pain.” And everything stopped shaking as painfully honest brown eyes bore into his, almost making him break eye contact with the way his throat clenched, because of course he was talking out loud while half dead and poisoned to the gills.

Instead, he smirked, not quite feeling it but they both knew he couldn’t just accept that, he was a Disney villain after all.  
“Says the one who did just that to me two years ago.”  
Stiles winced a little at that, stepping aside as Peter pushed against his chest lightly, “Yeah well, you were a psychotic dick back then.”

A humorless chuckle, despite the tender throat, “As opposed to now?” Peter frowned a little, not sensing Deaton ,or anyone else for that matter, nearby.  
“Now you’re just a dick with a poor attitude.”  
The werewolf make a token attempt at mock insult as he picked up his discarded jacket, slipping it on with minor discomfort, “Charming, aren’t you.”

“Yeah we-,” Stiles cut himself off with a shake of the head, running a hand down his face, “I saved your life, okay? I dragged your limp, half-dead ass back to my jeep, which you bled all over and are paying for the cleaning of by the way, had to dig out the bullets with a pocket knife and then run the hunters off road so I could grab their wolfsbane just for you to nearly die on my backseat anyway.”  
Stiles had slowly advanced on Peter, a finger pointing and coming very close to poking him in the chest. And getting broken if the teen wasn’t careful.

“I stayed by your whimpering ass, made sure you weren’t going to die on me, even broke in here because a vet’s is bound to be better than my jeep and when Deaton asks I’m saying it was your idea.”  
The finger wavered, but didn’t come any closer, so Peter knocked it aside, more than a little annoyed now, “Riveting tale, something to tell your friends and laugh over at my expense, I’m sure.”  
“And you’re still a dick. Why can’t you just say ‘Thank you, Stiles’?”

Eyes flashed blue, fangs slipped out and Peter found himself with a clawed fistful of Stiles’ shirt, the teen but inches from his face, “Because I don’t understand why.” He growled the words out like it pained him, shoving him back.

“It’s called common decency. You help your friends, frenemies, local creeper wolves!” Gangly limbs flew into the air in exasperation, “You did terrible things, no one is saying otherwise. But, but we all have or we will. And okay, yours were worse, but when’s the last time you killed someone, someone who didn’t have to die? You’re not that person, not the crazy, creepy uncle figure who lurks in dark corners giving cryptic advice that’ll likely get us killed.”  
Peter wanted to point out he never gave cryptic advice that would result in someone’s death, but Stiles bulldozed right on, apparently on a rant now that the werewolf had actually asked.

“Derek, you know, he used to be a grade A jerk. We hated him, got him arrested and stuff. Look at him now, he’s a great guy, a little slow on the uptake sometimes but it’s a work in progress and we rarely give him shit for back then. So, I mean, it’s not that hard to imagine someone, someone who knows you’re different now, would go out of their way to save your wolfy ass.”  
And Peter was still not sure about that, even if he is well aware of the change between his nephew and Scott and Stiles.

He stared at Stiles, watched the boy fidget defiantly under his gaze, could see him just waiting for Peter to say otherwise, to give him something else to jump on and ramble about.  
And while the werewolf wasn’t quite on board with that thinking, he knew first hand that grudges were hard to forget and get over, he wasn’t in the mood for any more talking.  
He felt exhausted and not just from Stiles’ excessive monologue. Poison always left a wolf weak, not to forget the fight that came before it.  
Though, looking down at his hand, claws gone but twitching, Peter doubted he’d be getting much sleep.

Startling slightly when fingers touched his own, Peter caught Stiles’ gaze, soft and worried, pulling his hand back when the teen started to open his mouth, “I’m going home.”  
Stiles caught on quick, stepping back again clearing his throat before grinning, “Need a ride?”

Peter wasn’t really keen on sitting in an enclosed space that smelt of his blood, but he had no idea if the hunters were still out on the prowl and he lacked the energy to fight if it came to that.  
Apparently sensing his victory, Stiles pulled open the door leading to the reception, holding it open for him.  
Peter didn’t bother rolling his eyes and stalked through the room and out into the fresh air, the crunching of shoes on glass and Stiles’ futile attempt at hiding the break-in evidence the only sounds ringing out into the night.

The Pack wolf in him couldn’t help but strain his ears for any sounds of fighting, the need to know if the others were fine only urged on more by recent events. It must have showed, Stiles coming to stand beside him, lightly patting his arm.  
“Ain’t heard a single howl tonight, well, except yours. Which hurt by the way.”

The glare didn’t even seem to bother Stiles, who fished the carkeys out of his pocket and headed towards the rustbucket jeep.  
He seemed to key in on Peter’s discomfort though, and really, he must be slipping if that was the case, “If anyone asks, we’ll say it was me practicing.”  
Stiles opened the car door, wrinkled his nose at the smell and sight that met him and glanced back to see Peter was still standing on the curb.

Frown on his face, shoulders sagging, the werewolf stalked forward, pulling open the car door and looking over at him, voice earnest as he spoke, “Thank you, Stiles.”  
He got a bright grin in return, Peter shaking his head before wincing at the state of the jeep.  
The teen had rightfully earned his gratitude tonight.

Starting the jeep up, Stiles paused for a moment before, “Sometimes I have these nightmares where I’m drowning-“  
“Please shut up.”  
“-and there’s these hands that are reaching out to me but I can’t qu-“  
“ _Stiles_.”  
“-iet reach them and when I get close I get this fear that they’re actually there to pu-“  
“Will food get you to be quiet?”  
“Yes. God, yes I. Am. Starving”


End file.
